


Adolescence

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/M, M/M, POV Second Person, asoiaf au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-24 01:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1586624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time the three of you meet is at the Stark girl's nameday. Annie, they call her, but the plain, almost common name strikes you as ill-fitting even at the age of nine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adolescence

**Author's Note:**

> Started a long time ago, before the official naming conventions for these characters were in place. Has a handful of characters but I don't like the practice of tagging any character whose name is so much as mentioned. Berwick/Berrick/Marcel gets a tag since i doubt he has much on here.

The first time the three of you meet is at the Stark girl's nameday. Annie, they call her, but the plain, almost common name strikes you as ill-fitting even at the age of nine. She is a waifish thing but the way she looks through people is like the dog your kennel master put down when it came back sick from a hunt. A harmless looking bite, but a few days later the beast frothed at the mouth and and snarled and snapped at anyone that approached. You watched as your maester pronounced it a lost cause with a single, neat stroke of the ax. Only dogs who've outlived their use and traitors and deserters meet such an end, not women or little girls. Certainly not the _honorable_ Starks.

You're seated next to your father, a guest of honor at the high table despite years of tension between your families. All the Northern lords have someone in attendance -and many, conspicuously, have brought their sons or nephews of an age with you and the girl.

Mother clucked in disapproval as she watched you fold and pack belongings for the trip to Winterfell. “Nine years old with her mother freshly buried, and already these lords are trying to curry Stark's favor for a betrothal. Take the red doublet out and refold it Bertholdt, you don't want to look like a pauper when we get there.” The cotton was smooth under your fingers as you obeyed and she continued, “They say he refuses to remarry, but he has no heir, so of course the child is in high demand. Make a good impression on the girl. Everyone will be licking her father's boots, but he always doted on his wife and daughter. She'll get a say when the time comes.”

“What if we don't like each other?” you said, eyes darting from her expectant face to the fabric clenched in your hands and back, “I don't want to marry her.”

She took your face in between a thumb and forefinger, made you look her in the eyes.

“A sweet and childish notion. You'll want Winterfell soon enough, and you'll get it through her. Your father's family is old and noble and have always fought them. In the end they always lose. Let history have its skinned Starks, you take a living one.”

Your mother is wrong: the very idea of marriage terrifies you so much you can't manage to hold Annie's gaze when introduced. Instead you mumble an inarticulate, "M'lady" at your feet. Her eyes are steely, cold, and bored. For losing her mother recently, she doesn't strike you as grief stricken -nor even sad. Perhaps the hardness is a shield. The rest of the evening you steal glances as she endures the constant attention of every visitor, but see no cracks in her armor.

Well into the feast, many of the lords and ladies are in their cups and the young Stark quietly exits the hall, followed by a boy from the lower tables. You side eye your father, but he is not bleary eyed and sloppy from wine cutting your own escape short before it was more than a notion. Your legs are too long to dangle above the floor and kick at your chair legs in idle boredom any more, so you settle for digging at a groove in the worn wooden table with a nail.

Father raps two fingers on your wrist and you still and put your hands in your lap before the chastisement begins, but he leans in and says, “The high table must be dull, you're free to go.”

He glances at the wide iron studded doors and motions a dismissal. It's no longer appealing knowing Mother must've spoken to him, no longer an escape from boredom but an ushering into something that makes you sweat and your throat tighten.

“I don't mind,” you try assuring him, but the look hardens so you push off your chair and sidle around the raucous occupants of the table and hop off the dais to trip over the occasional lost horn of ale knocked off a table, and a few hounds searching for scraps underfoot, before making it to the door and slipping out into the quiet night air. It's the first spring you've known but the nights are still cold and your breath follows after you in plumes, yellow in the torchlight.

Winterfell may be of the North but it is foreign all the same and searching for Annie Stark is a perfect excuse to meander and explore the grounds. A scant few guards and free riders who've had too much to drink are about, and none give you trouble, only a passing glance if even that. They see only a boy, not your heraldry. Anonymity suits you just fine.

The silence overwhelms as much as the noise and bustle of the Great Hall, each of your steps an unmistakeable wet squelch as you make your way through the lingering slush and ice of the castle yard. The towering stone walls remind you of home and you crane your neck back to see just how high they are, wonder if they're taller than at the Dreadfort.

Only when you hear him cough into his hand do you notice the nearby guard waving you over.

“Your friends just barged through, said they were headed for the smithy. Keep 'em out of trouble, will you?” He gets a dumb nod out of you, but when he points you in the right direction and tells you it's by the stables you remember to thank him.

The main courtyard is enormous, connecting to almost every part of Winterfell. Everything is high grey stone, though it looks black in the sparse light of scattered torches. Above the far wall the upper branches of dense forest reach skyward in the godswood. Squinting hard enough, you can pretend the irregular bumps are leaves, not unlike the newly budding trees in your own godswood.

Cold, dark, unfamiliar. It'd be easy to get lost in there, say you were looking for the Stark girl, and escape the night unscathed. But trying to find the right words to talk to a strange girl is only immediately more dreadful than your father's disappointment.

You trudge on through the courtyard and don't look back, eyes firmly focused on the ground for patches of black ice. A quiet, miserable part of you whines it would be a better fate to slip than get further. Muffled sounds coming from ahead are a good sign, but as you get closer and can make them out you're surprised to hear the unmistakeable ring of steel on steel. The guard did say they'd be by the smithy but...

The sight of two figures sparring solidifies as you approach. One of them is not very good. They stop when you're close enough to recognize Annie, now in trousers, as the better swordsman. The boy turns to look as the crunch of your boots alerts him to what stopped her from landing a vicious blow. There's dirt on his face and on his knees, a tousled wet mess of a boy. You don't recognize him as any of the boys you've met before or were introduced to today. He certainly wasn't sitting at the high table.

He turns to Annie and asks, “Who's that?”

She shrugs, “A Bolton. It doesn't matter. Let your guard down again and next time I'll gut you.” Admonishment doled out, she looks back to you.

“Are you just going to stand there?”

The boy's watching you too, blue eyes bright with the sort of fierce manic energy that does not surprise you in a friend of this girl's.

“Are you any good? Annie's teaching me but you can have a round too. We're practicing with the real swords,” he looks smugly at the blade in his hand. The light catches it as he moves, revealing the steel does have a sharp edge -a stupid choice.

“That's not very safe without armor,” you say and nudge some slush with your foot. Poor footing as well.

He rolls his eyes, “So you're useless then?”

“Can't be more useless at this than you,” Annie is not impressed by either of you it seems. “Put these back and get the practice swords. _Lord Bolton_ surely isn't afraid of getting a few bruises from a weak girl and a steward's son, is he?”

You flush but with everyone red faced in the cold it goes unnoticed.

“It's Bertholdt. My lady.”

“Annie,” she gestures as the boy trudges back into the smithy muttering under his breath, “and he's Eren. If you want to stay out here with us, you're going to be useful.”

“You're not bad...”

“For a girl?” Her tone is colder than the air and you shiver.

“No. Not bad. In general. But he's-”

For the first time that evening she smiles, a wolfish hungry thing instead of the fake mask with enough teeth to placate everyone she was paraded before during the celebrations. Her face softens just a little.

“Terrible?” Despite the boy's lack of skill she sounds fond, “But he works hard. He'll get better.”

Eren returns with dulled practice blades -and still no armor, not even padding. Annie meant it about those bruises. He hands you one and puts some space between you before settling into the worst stance you've ever seen. Determination only goes so far.

Annie steps in between the two of you, hand outstretched. “Give me the blade and learn something Eren.”

He protests but hands it over when his huffing doesn't move her. Pouting on the sideline, he doesn't mask his interest however, his furrowed brow relaxing, but his eyes trained on Annie as she settles into a much better stance than his own.

She's small -advantageously a small target, but suffering from short range cripples her chances against you, even if you were matched in skill - but you've always been good with a blade. Maybe it would be best to go easy on her. You start to ask and the second you let your guard down she lunges, hard. A messy parry deflects it.

Eren watches as the two of you spar, Annie careful and efficient but vicious with her blows. Several land, the flat of her blade leaving stinging welts, serious about her earlier promise of bruises. You focus on defense, sure your father did not send you after her to rough her up.

The hesitation is what bests you: she swings too low and you see the opening, could easily knock her to the ground -but you don't. She has no such restraints. The moment you pause she sidesteps and lands a deft swing that sends your blade spinning.

She watches it arc with a smirk for a half a second before you grab her by the wrist and wrench her arm behind her back, making her drop her own blade. Her left hand balls into a fist and she hits you hard in the nose.

“That wasn't very knightly of you,” Eren complains from the sideline as you cradle your face, blood dripping off your chin and steaming lightly as each drop melts the dirty snow at your feet.

“Killing isn't very noble either, but it's what a sword is for,” Annie rubs her wrist, eyes her sword on the ground, but you're already scrambling for yours, right yourself as she closes her fingers around the pommel, and hit her hard with the back of your blade behind her knee.

"Did he just hit you?"

The three of you freeze at the unfamiliar voice. In the mad scramble no one noticed anyone approaching. You drop the blade and take a step back, as if proximity with the weapon is somehow more incriminating than the act.

"I hit him first," she doesn't need to roll her eyes, and she doesn't - they are fixed on the approaching boy in that way that makes you think of something feral - her voice carries more disdain than she ought to be able to project.

You recognize him as Lord Mormont's son having been briefly introduced earlier. Reiner Mormont. He was all smiles and laughter the whole time at the high table. At least someone enjoyed the celebration.

"But you're a lady," he goes on obstinately.

"No she's not." The words come out before you can stop yourself, and you wince as all eyes fix on you. "Ladies don't fight," you add uncertainly. Girls are a foreign subject, but you suppose this is true so it makes a fair excuse. Father will be angry if he hears you called the girl half a wildling at heart, so she will suffer her ladyship being called questionable instead.

Annie stares at you like she wants to break more than your nose, as Eren laughs loudly. You shrink under the look and try to apologize.

Reiner doesn't allow it, angrily speaking over you, "My mother is a lady and can fight as well as any knight in the whole North."

Your mind spins in confusion, "I didn't mean -"

"You're the one that was offended that someone might hit _the lady_ ," Eren accuses, the only one who finds the whole thing funny.

"It's her nameday celebration. She was in a dress," Reiner seems to catch on he's losing just as poorly as you were and ends lamely, "It's just different."

With a scowl she asks, “What do you want?”

“People noticed you were missing. I offered to find you.” He gestures at you, “Is he bleeding?”

“I said I hit him first.”

He fishes around in a pocket and crosses the short distance between you saying, “Can't have you looking like that. There's a handkerchief in here somewhere...” With how he spoke over you earlier, refusal is futile, so you acquiesce and hold out your hand.

Reiner either does not see or simply ignores it, taking your face and angling it in the light with his left hand for a better view. Any noise of surprise is muffled by the thick fabric mopping up your face. His gloved hand gingerly touches your nose and you wince.

“It doesn't look broken,” he says, “but she got you good. Bertholdt, was it?”

You nod and he smiles, nothing like the other two. There's no hidden edge or wide, too bright eyes. It's genuine and open and warm, warm enough to make you forget how cold it is even with sweat freezing on your neck and wet splashes of mud making your trousers stick to your legs. For a bizarre moment you wonder if this is what summer feels like.

“We should get back to the great hall.”

You don't protest.

–

Shortly after your tenth nameday your father takes you on a hunt. There is no hunting party, nor hounds baying at your feet. It is just the two of you, the bow, and the buck that falls to a well placed arrow. He pulls it from the animal's throat after its final bellows quiet, and it stills. It's warm to the touch when you help secure it on your father's palfrey.

Father shows you how to dress, skin, and butcher it when you return home, calmly instructing you as he makes the first cut, drawing the blade from groin to sternum. He is precise, slicing only through the beast's hide and, he shows you with a flick of the blade moving wet, warm, but very dead tissue aside, the stomach muscles.

“Too deep and you'll puncture the bowels.”

He turns it on its side and slimy ropes of intestine spill out in a wash of dark, thick blood. You push back, away from the mess, but he lays a hand on your shoulder and urges you forward.

“Sometimes there's no avoiding getting your hands dirty,” he says as he hands you the knife, “It's important not to flinch in those moments. Now, roll up your sleeves, the diaphragm needs removing before we can get to the heart and lungs.” He ushers you close to the carcass where it lays, eyes vacant and staring. The blood and smell and insides aren't half as unsettling as the inky adrenaline-blown pupils frozen in death.

Your father puts his hand, large and steady, around yours, gently guides your movements as he tells you where to cut. It's tiring, sticky work. He lets you sit back and watch when it comes to the skinning.

Shortly after your tenth nameday your mother tells you the Dreadfort is no place for a young boy, too dark and dreary and morbid for a youth. Her logic puzzles you as the Dreadfort is the only home you've ever known. The macabre choices in the fortress' furnishings and embellishments aren't new, and it's not like you're a _child_.

“Fostering is a wonderful opportunity sweetling,” she says, finally revealing her point. Your heart sinks and stomach seizes painfully, wondering if you did something wrong to make your parents displeased enough to send you away. Mother notices your distress despite the lack of complaints or refusals.

She pulls you close and kisses your forehead, "The Mormonts and your father worked out an arrangement. It'll just be for a few years They say the bonds of foster siblings are just as strong as those by blood. Having someone your age and station around will be good for you. Young Reiner was at Annie Stark's nameday celebration," she says, as if meeting the boy once is some sort of comfort, "And he only has sisters so I'm sure he'll take to you fast. Every boy wants a brother."

There is no particular love between the Boltons and the Mormonts, but your father dryly agrees if anyone can coax you out of your shell it is them.

"Bear Island is in the middle of nowhere." It's not an objection, but a half step from a plea.

"Lord Stark offered to foster you. He has no son of his own, only a daughter. Of course, refusing my liege lord would be untoward, so other arrangements were made to prevent insult and escape his plotting. I won't suffer the Starks trying to make my son their pet."

You fidget and he sighs, "Obedience is not a trait I thought would vex me in a child. Perhaps the Mormonts will impart some of their infamous obstinacy in you as well."

As a parting gift your father gives you a history lesson. There is no maester present, nor quills or heavy tomes or dry parchment. It is just the two of you, the knife, and the broken man who cries and screams as your father peels the skin from him.

You've never seen a man skinned before. It's not at all like butchering a deer even if it's the same underneath: blood and muscle, flesh and bone. But deer don't beg, just lay still and cooling, bloated tongues lolling and eyes empty. Somehow the echoes of that image nestled in your mind is more grotesque than the flaying. The poacher lives and breathes and bleeds (for now) and you understand no matter how the technique differs the end result will be the same. A man is just a smarter animal, just as easily hunted, slaughtered, and skinned.

In between the shrieks father lectures you slowly -not a lesson on skinning, but of what it means to be a Bolton. You keep to the old ways. This is a gesture of trust, a reminder of who you are. You won't forget.

It's a long trip from the Dreadfort to the Bay of Ice, but the stop at Winterfell is a surprise. Perhaps it's your father's final insult to Lord Stark, but the man is gracious if cool. You were never one for catching slights or intrigues.

His daughter is just as you remember her, still small for her age, but no waif. She watches your elders discuss matters of state and accounts the way you watch her hands, not the soft dainty things like Mother has, but long fingered and marked with callus like your own. No matter how much she trains, she'll never have a real opportunity to use her skills at swordsmanship. She may be a woman, it may be unusual, but she _is_ good. It seems a waste.

The steward and his son are seated at the high table with the rest of the household, the great hall deserted compared to Annie's nameday celebration. Eren, bored to sullen silence by the intricate discussion of taxes and tithing, attempts to flick crumbs off the table and into his father's mouth as he speaks. Grisha Yaeger coldly dismisses the boy from the table when he misses his target and hits his father square in the eye. Lord Stark intervenes, stopping Eren and addressing his daughter.

“Annie, why don't you join Eren and show Bertholdt to his chambers for the night?”

She sighs but pushes away from the table and the three of you make your way out of the hall and towards the courtyard.

“You can't miss the guesthouse, it's right out here. We're going to the godswood instead,” Eren explains, “We always do. Who wants to be cooped up inside now it's spring? I bet you're good at climbing trees. I'm the fastest.”

“Fastest at falling out of them.”

“I get higher first,” he snaps at Annie.

“Are we going to get in trouble,” you ask, “if they expect us to be there, I mean...”

"Aren't Boltons supposed to be frightening?" her piercing gaze takes you in before making an assessment: "You're just tall."

“Uh,” you say, a questioning lilt coloring your tone, “Sorry?”

“That's why he's got to be good at climbing trees,” Eren goes on blithely.

Winterfell's godswood is enormous, several acres of dense forest with a hot spring banked by the ancient weirdwood heart tree. In the low light of the evening it's hard to see, as little filters through the canopy above. The three of you keep by where the guesthouse overlooks the pool, extra light filtering down from firelight.

Eren turns out to be quite proficient at scaling the enormous trees. Annie, still in her skirts, has a clumsier time of it, but it's clear they've made a game of it since the seasons changed, a game you lack experience in but are goaded into joining. Eren's competitive nature can't keep up with his body, and eventually Annie's earlier words are recalled when he falls out of the same tree three times, reduced to a furious cursing mess as she pelts him with seeds, legs dangling carelessly from her seat far above him.

“Oh stop crying” she pulls a small and meticulously wrapped package out from some hidden pocket, “I nicked a fruit tart from the kitchens earlier and you'll only get some if you get up here. Pace yourself and find good footing.”

She reaches across to where you're seated nearby and hands you a sticky piece of the pastry.

“It's a peace offering,” she tells you solemnly.

You eye the tart, sugary fruit and crisp pastry enticing, “Are we fighting?”

Eren's determined ascent is brought to another standstill, as a soft thump and frustrated noises make their way up to earshot. Annie ignores it.

“Our fathers are. That's why you came to find me last time, you were told to. It's why my father wanted me to show you to your room, too.” She gestures at the guesthouse, grey stone peeking through leaves.

You bite into the sweet to avoid committing to a response.

“I don't want to be a part of their game.”

“I'm not very cunning,” you admit around a mouthful, “but I don't like this either.”

“We can't do anything,” she says, “not yet. ”

You chew slowly enough that Eren makes his way up for his piece, and the next morning leave Winterfell.

–

Bear Island couldn't be more different from your home. It's no fortress, too remote and poor to compare to the Dreadfort. Everything is wood -both the hall of the Mormonts and everything on the island surrounding it. No towering spiked stone walls surrounding an imposing keep, no scattered towns and villages throughout the woods nearby. The people, mostly fishermen, dwell on the coasts at the mercy of Ironborn and wildling raiders. Despite the coldness and isolation, the Mormonts are welcoming, their seat in the North warm and inviting.

As it turns out, you do take to each other with ease. Reiner Mormont remembers you and is anything but shy, happy to fill your nervous silence as you settle in. The two of you manhandle a trunk with your belongings into your new modest but comfortable chamber, and Reiner chatters.

“The Starks gave us Bear Island a long time ago,” he tells you fondly, “After winning it from the Ironborn. They wrestled for it and Rodrik Stark won– or that's how the story goes anyway.”

“The Starks haven't given us anything but trouble,” you echo words that have been taught to you all your life.

Reiner laughs, “Pretty sure you got an almost broken nose from one.”

You flush a little, but he doesn't tease further, just helps you unpack and shows you around your new home. He introduces you to everyone you encounter but halfway through the tour, he veers off in distraction and promises to show you the rest later. You've forgotten most of the places and names already and welcome the break, content to follow him around as his shadow.

It's a better method of learning faces and names and locations, and soon it becomes second nature. Reiner is close friends with a stable boy, Berrick, and the two of them absorb you into their duo instantaneously. They show you all the best places to hide when Reiner's sisters drag you into their games of hide and seek, they teach you how to fish when you all sneak off to the small sandy beaches as the weather warms – though only warm enough to wade in ankle deep in the icy waters so far north. When you practice with Reiner in the yard, Berrick plays at being page while the weaponsmaster looks on and guides you.

But as you settle in, the more aware of being the outsider you become. Every private joke of Berrick and Reiner's you wait through quietly as they roar with laughter a stinging annoyance, an embarrassing reminder that you've never had to share anything before. Even the clothes you wear set you apart, the finer reds and pinks unmistakable against utilitarian Mormont green and black.

Bear Island is not your home, not truly. While the sharp edge of homesickness is dulled by the unexpected fondness and excitement you meet there, it's impossible to escape the feeling of abandoned loneliness.

You do your best to stem petty jealousy's creep into budding friendships but find yourself focusing on engaging them separately. It's easy with Reiner -Berrick is not privy to the education and training two nobleborn boys get. Lessons are not so bad with Reiner to struggle over sums with you, and swordsmanship and riding are only more exciting at the prospect of eventual knighthood side by side with him. The exhaustion and blisters and bruises are worth every minute.

Berrick is harder to get alone, and you settle for brief moments while the three of you are together. He tells you more than you'll ever need to know about horses as he mucks out a stall and you and Reiner hover, waiting him to finish.

He shoos Reiner away after his third offer to help, “I'm not getting in trouble for shirking off work if someone comes in and sees you.” Sulking to the other side of the stable, Reiner slices off chunks of an apple to feed one of the horses.

“You can ride my horse some time,” you offer quietly, “Since you take care of them and all. It only seems fair.”

Berrick stops raking hay for a long moment to look up at you, “I don't know how to ride.”

“It's not hard to learn,” you pause, “but, uh, if you don't want to-”

“Are we teaching him how to ride a horse?” Reiner asks nosily, self imposed exile done prematurely in light of more interesting things on your side of the stable.

The three of you lure your palfrey out of its stall with Reiner's remaining bits of apple and attempt to saddle it. Even with the aid of a stool it's difficult work for three ten year olds who can barely reach. The horse shies away and makes noises of discontent that not even apple bribes and shushing can quiet.

In the end the horse pulls and kicks and you give up.

“Maybe another time when someone else has already done this,” you suggest to the disappointed Berrick.

“Well get taller soon enough,” Reiner says, directly in your ear as he rests his chin on your shoulder and you jump.

Berrick laughs as he moves to urge the irritated palfrey back in its stall, “You're more skittish than your horse.”

The horse kicks and he laughs harder, until the next kick connects with a wet crack. His skull caves instantly. Bone snaps and his head bursts in a gruesome spray of blood and brains. Reiner gapes blankly so you yank him by the arm away from where it could kick the both of you next and drag him out of the stables.

He is pale and quiet and stares back at the stable entryway. You wait for him to say or do something but when he doesn't you take a firm hold of his wrist.

He lets you usher him all the way back to his chambers where you seat him on a heavy wooden chest at the foot of the bed before rustling through his wardrobe. He stares at you when you pull a clean tunic out, place it next to him on the chest. He doesn't move. You pull a glove off slowly, with shaking hands, then the next. There is a look in his gaze you can't place and it makes you even more nervous.

Gingerly you lean in and fumble at the laces of his collar, fingers sluggish and fat like slugs as you try to keep your hands steady.

Reiner puts a hand on your shoulder, pushes you back before finally speaking, "What are you doing?" You start and recoil at his voice, hoarse and quiet, like it's another kick. The last noise you remember hearing. His voice is as brittle and sharp and small as the white chips of bone peeking out from inside Berrick's ruined head. Maybe Reiner wasn't quiet, maybe you just didn't hear him say anything until now.

Swallowing hard you force words out, "Those clothes are stained."

"We need to get help, Berrick-"

"Is dead."

His mouth twists and he stares into his lap, unwilling or unable to look you in the eyes. It's a mercy.

"They'll blame us, promise you won't say anything. They'll find him anyway. We didn't do anything wrong, it was his own fault-" you ramble and shoot a look at the door, wonder if you should bar it until everything is all cleaned up. Until Reiner is cleaned up, until he listens to you.

His fingers are balled into tight fists resting on his thighs and he lets out an ugly noise that makes you wince, even when you realize it's a strangled sob as he begins to cry.

At a loss, you eye the door again but there are no footsteps to be heard. Only Reiner's crying. You sit next to him and awkwardly go to put an arm around his shoulders but your hand hovers, lowers, then grips the wooden chest instead. Despite the lack of touch, Reiner takes the closeness as an invitation and leans against you. He is heavy and his breaths shuddering in pained gasps. When he wraps his arms around you and rests his face in the crook of your neck you falter for only a moment before brushing his hair back and kissing him lightly on the forehead. It strikes you as silly only after, you're not his mother soothing a scraped knee.

He doesn't object, just clenches his fists tighter, hard enough you fear he'll rip your shirt. After some time he quiets, but he stays still against you, face damp and sniffling and warm against your collarbone. Relief settles, or perhaps it's simply numbness, and you're able to coax Reiner into something cleaner before anyone even notices Berrick's unfortunate accident.

Thinking about it makes you feel vaguely ill, but it's nothing compared to the ugly thought that slices through your mind – impossible to dispel: you don't have to share any more.

Berrick's body is found and judged to be an unfortunate accident. Reiner is miserable for weeks, something that proves more difficult for you than any grief. You don't object when he sneaks into your room at night and falls asleep next to you, clutching your hand tightly.

Guilt prompts you to promise him quietly that he'll be fine, it wasn't so bad. If he's going to be a knight he has to get used to that sort of thing. Knights are warriors after all, not some common foot soldiers.

–

Your first summer is short, according the the maesters one of the shortest on record. The winter that comes after is equally so, but exponentially brutal. When spring comes around again you are no longer children and Westeros is at its most inviting. It's not long before Reiner suggests the two of you take off and explore the Seven Kingdoms on your own. You're young and able enough to defend yourselves if it comes to it, but the roads are safer these days.

There have always been travels and tourneys: short, small, and primarily Northern. Trips home to the Dreadfort, with or without Reiner accompanying you, every time you towered further over your mother and soon enough your father; A tourney at White Harbor big enough even a few Southron knights stir themselves to attend; trips to Winterfell, for Reiner is as fervently devoted to the Starks as most men above the Neck are.

Lord Stark found him charming enough to tolerate the two of you, though his daughter seemed less impressed by loyalty. Perhaps years of sycophants take their toll, and outside of important lords Annie had no patience for it. She never found you particularly impressive either.

When news of the upcoming Lannister tourney emerges, Reiner leaps at it, starstruck with ideas of glory and riches to be won at Casterly Rock. Less romantic and exciting is the trip there thanks to the onslaught of spring storms. Bear Island to Lannisport is a further distance than either of you have traveled, and inns are few and far between.

It's a long, wet, ride to the Westerlands. The damp is inescapable on the nights you're forced to make camp and sleep by the road, and no amount of huddling by the small fire is enough to dry more than your boots. At least the makeshift tent is small enough to trap escaped body heat in as you fall asleep to the hushed whispers of Reiner's pre-emptive bragging, as if he's already won the joust and melee and wooed some Targaryen princess with one swing of his broadsword.

He rests his head on your thigh and discomfort hits you in waves -not unusual in itself, but it's not the invasion of space that bothers you. It's difficult to mind thoughtless touch with someone you've grown up with. The urge to pull him closer makes keeping still difficult, your extremities buzzing with anxious tension. He is warm against you, but warmth can suffocate. Fever disorients and feeds strange thoughts. Thoughts you ignore, gods know what you'd do even if you acted on it.

When you think of intimacy and trust you think of violence - of Father sharing secrets with you, of thumbing Berrick's blood off Reiner's cheek, of fighting dirty during childhood swordsmanship lessons and ending up tangled and bruised, blunted weapons cast aside. A flayed man holds no secrets, but the thought of Reiner under the knife is an unwanted one. It'd be better to learn about what lies beneath his skin with hands and mouth and teeth -

You run your fingers through his hair, down his pale neck. It's just shy of inappropriate, too old to make excuses for this kind of thing, but you don't stop and he doesn't shy away from it.

Girls are no longer a mystery after years of living with Reiner's sisters trailing your footsteps. As it turns out, they're no different from boys really. A lesson already learned from Annie Stark, but solidified in your years on Bear Island.

Except they _are_ different, just enough that you never thought to try kissing one of Reiner's sisters but just one small childish exploration sticks in your mind with unusual definition. Of, once, when Reiner kissed you because he wanted to know what it was like and couldn't very well kiss his sisters, not like that.

You feel your face go red in shame and embarrassment, thankful for the dark. Maybe if you really did have a fever you could get away with leaning over him and pressing your mouth to his already damp throat. But the heat fades from your cheeks, he moves to settle in and sleep, and you were never the bravest man the North had to offer.

The tourney at Casterly Rock is missed by no one. In Southron fashion, no, _Lannister_ fashion, it is lavish to a degree that would be considered wasteful at home. But the South is rich and plentiful even after a hard winter, and it's easy to get swept up in the festivities and splendor.

Lord Erwin Lannister is a name familiar to all in the Seven Kingdoms. His elder brother died of some wasting illness, and shortly after so did his young son, leaving Erwin the Lannister fortune and lordship. Rumors of poison and other means of murder were whispered behind Erwin's back, but the man was too well regarded to have it stick.

The Warden of the West, willing to tolerate eccentrics and the lowborn if they were useful. A man who aimed high- as if the wealth and power afforded to one of the great houses were not enough. Everyone knew the King and his hand fought often, and any day the position would be open to Erwin to reach for it.

With no wife or children of his own, a young cousin stood to inherit, but it's his niece people think of – Christa Lannister, the kind of woman only the jealous could revile.

Her natural sweetness, maybe even naivete, broke typical expectations of the ambitious Lannisters her uncle seemed to embody -something you could relate to. You'd met her once years before. On a trip with your mother to visit her family in the Eyrie, the Arryns hosted the late Lord Lannister at the same time. You never knew why the Lannisters were there, but you remember Christa clearly. Small, fair, and light eyed, she could've been a softer and more delicate sister of Annie Stark. But where Annie was icy and sharp, dismissive and uninterested, Christa was almost abnormally preoccupied with being the opposite. Perhaps it's easy to be kind when you live in such luxury.

You see her in the evening, at a lengthy feast for the highborn and participants in the tourney. She sits directly next to her uncle, Erwin flaunting his doting over the girl. Odd, and maybe even insulting to the other lords attending. No doubt many expected the seat of honor. For all his practiced courtesy and good favor of the king, the man has always been rumored to keep queer company for a lord of such high standing. Perhaps he's more eccentric than you thought.

Every time you glance at Erwin, a small dark-haired figure is at his elbow. By the size you would have figured him to be a squire or page of some sort, but it's apparent just in the way he moves that he's no child, and you're eventually able to spot the coat of arms as a lesser house swearing the Lannisters fealty: Clegane. With the way the man tails Erwin, the dogs on his sigil are fitting.

As the feast commences, you find yourself seated with a handful of mostly Northerners. Across the table Annie Stark sits with a dark haired girl you don't recognize. Reiner sits beside you, along with a young and loud Glover boy Reiner's always been friendly with. You're fairly sure his name is Connie, but his siblings are numerous enough he could be a Frey. Surely _one_ of them is named Connie. He and Reiner spend most of the evening talking around you or pushing a new tankard into your hands in an effort to get you to join in their revelry.

It's Reiner who finally manages to draw your attention away from the mummers on stilts breathing fire and plates of rich dishes.

"Of course when I win the joust, I'll propose to Christa Lannister."

The words wind you faster than any physical blow of his did, face falling for a moment before catching yourself. Reiner doesn't notice, preoccupied with his fawning over some girl he doesn't even know.

"She's practically the Maiden in human form," he sighs.

Nothing escapes Annie's gaze, certainly not an obvious breach in composure, but shaming Reiner is either more interesting or amusing. She raises an eyebrow but addresses him, not you, "About as southron as the Maiden too. As if Lady Lannister would leave the warmth and gold of Casterly Rock for a cold, poor island in the middle of nowhere."

Her eyes flicker to you, "Bertholdt has the means to broker a marriage and keep her content. Shame you have yet to talk to a woman without threats to your life."

Reiner breaks into drunken hysterics -severe enough to double him over. Connie sniggers on your other side, and you find it impossible to shrink down in on yourself anymore than you already have. Reiner goes to say something, but stops midway, slaps a hand on the table, and announces that he needs to take a piss.

“He's drunk. Go help him.” Annie orders Connie, who obeys without hesitation, slipping out of his seat on the long benches and to Reiner's side in the case the needs to be steadied. Idiotic really, Reiner's twice the boy's size.

"Planning to let him win?"

He walks away, too busy joking with Connie to hear and slaps the younger boy on the back with enough enthusiasm to knock him over. There's no point in denying her question, "He's been mooning over the tourney the whole trip here. Look how much he wants it. And deserves it." The bitterness is impossible to disguise in your voice or the way you wring your hands to keep from clenching them.

"To lose on purpose would do him a disservice. It's not his fault you're a craven like the rest of us."

You don't bother to deny that either.

“Mina?” She rests a hand on the shoulder of the young woman next to her, “I'm going for a walk to get some fresh air, these tents are stifling. Bertholdt is going to escort me.”

Outside of the the pleasure pavilion tents, the night air is cool enough to almost remind you of home.

"You're a talented rider, better than Reiner. Win the joust and crown Christ Lannister Queen of Love and Beauty yourself. End his silly fantasy now." She takes your arm in hers and walks towards the pavilion as laborers finish setting up for the joust. "Your chance at the girl is real and Lannisters are powerful allies. Your father would approve of the match and Lord Erwin would consider it seriously. Prove you are as ruthless and calculating as you should be."

"I don't want the girl."

"Since when does that matter? You think I want to marry some Lord who will take away my title and power? I remain unwed only as long as the King thinks me a weak willed pawn, more easily controlled than any suitable match to force on me at his whim. With that uncle of hers, Christa will never marry for love either. You're not the worst husband she could be inflicted with, nor she the worst wife for you."

“I -I'll think on it,” You murmur, unsure if you truly will or are appeasing her.

"It wouldn't do to insult a fragile woman like me," she relents with a moue.

You walk in silence for a time before thanking her for her counsel and excusing yourself. When you look over your shoulder she remains still, staring at you with some inscrutable expression.

If the feast seemed boisterous and exciting and loud, the tourney the next day is overwhelming. Navigating through tents and milling squires and knickering horses takes an eternity. Reiner leads the way confident despite the fact he must be going the wrong way. But no -of course – Reiner would risk losing the both of you time for his stupid attempts at winning Christa's favor. Instead of finding your own tent and armor, he found _her_. She's talking to a to her personal guard, a slender dark-haired man with his hair tied back messily.

“My lady!” Reiner calls out, loud enough to get her attention even in the bustle. Christ looks over, wide eyed in confusion. Her gaze settles on Reiner with polite interest and a smile slips into place so easily you could believe it was natural, not eve practiced courtesy. Your stomach twists at the way she effortlessly seems to float around the muddy horse tracks without getting a speck of dirt on her flowing gown. But as she closes the distance a squire rushes by, jostling her and she trips.

You don't move a muscle but it's just close enough for Reiner to each out and catch her by the arm. Unrestrained laughter comes from her guard, an unpleasant bark let free from curled lips and bared white teeth.

“Ymir,” Christa nearly snaps at the guard -who appears to be a woman now you have a better view. “Thank you, Ser,” she says more gently to Reiner.

“Of course, it's nothing,” he smiles brightly, “even in mud I'm sure you would be the most beautiful woman here.”

The woman – Ymir – rolls her eyes from where she stands behind the two blonds. If you didn't feel so miserable, you'd be inclined to do the same. You tune out their chatter and crane your neck, looking around the field for where you tent must be. They talk long enough that before you do, Christa is wishing Reiner and you good luck. You mumble a thank you automatically.

Reiner leads you by the arm away from the woman, leaning in excitedly to whisper, “She gave me her favor to ride with,” and shows you a small handkerchief with the initials C.L. embroidered on cloth of gold. Your head feels too light and your chest feels too heavy, like your insides emptied out and all pooled into your gut.

He pulls you into a tent, thankfully your own, and regret immediately gets to putting his armor on. The two of you eschewed squires for your adventure, and you finally regret it. The privacy was worth it until now. Being trapped with Reiner as he moons over Christa is unbearable. He strips out of his fine tunic and breeches, unashamed, and you avert your eyes.

It's difficult not to think about Annie Stark's words from the night before. It's humiliating enough to know how transparent you are, but how badly you want to do what she suggested just to keep Reiner to yourself. It's childish and selfish and above all stupid. He's not yours to have, and even if you married Christa Lannister he'd settle down with someone else eventually. Why risk your friendship for nothing? You may as well lose on purpose. After all, who would you crown? Reiner?

You sneak a glance at him as he pulls on riding breeches and buckles his belt. No. He'd be made a laughing stock and never forgive you. It wouldn't be like when you were kids playing. Even if it were private he'd - “Reiner?” You ask, voice quiet. He looks up expectantly and your resolve crumbles.

“Do you need a hand with that?” You motion to his chestplate.

“Yeah, sure.” He shrugs it most of the way on before you rest your hands on the cold metal, helping him fasten buckles and clasps. Your breath fogs the metal when you kneel to help buckle his greaves, fingers suddenly awkward and clumsy. It takes three tries to find a hole in the leather.

“Sorry, I'm just nervous.” He doesn't need to know the specifics.

“It's fine,” Reiner says with surprising softness, and as you go to stand he cups your chin with his fingers. “You'll be great.” Frozen and unsure, he pulls away a little sheepishly before you do, and you get to your feet a little flushed and unsteady.

He's even broader in armor, tall and masculine and every bit the iconic knight

“You'll be better.”

“I -I need to go do something,” Reiner says suddenly, all his previous softness gone and replaced with something terse and tense. “I'll send Connie to come help you.” He doesn't wait for a response (doesn't even look at you) as he leaves the tent, door flapping after him.

Maybe he's less oblivious than you thought. Maybe it's not about Christa at all, just Reiner trying to tell you as kindly as he can to stop. You swallow hard before getting your armor on as fast as you can alone. If Connie shows up, you're not around to find out.

The warmth of the southron spring is unbearable after a few tilts under padding and armor. Unsurprisingly you've yet to be unhorsed, quickly making your way through opponents with careful precision, Northern and Southron alike. The crowds, more than the heat even, make you sweat. So many people, cheering and screaming when you're ahorse, all eyes on you. Even sitting in the shade, sharing an apple with your palfrey, as a hedge knight gets knocked off his horse, sweat rolls down the side of your forehead in rivulets. The mad screaming of the crowd makes your horse whinny and snort and you soothe it with quiet words and a hand rested on its flanks. It settles, but you do not, pacing back and forth.

Managing to keep out of the way and unnoticed hasn't been difficult. You suspect Reiner is avoiding you and don't seek him out, only keep track of him when it's his turn to ride. Christa Lannister's red handkerchief knotted around his belt shines vibrantly against the forest green of his surcoat, impossible to put out of mind. Every time he takes a lance you mistake it for blood pouring from some wound, but he remains unscathed.

That is, until Erwin Lannister's man Clegane unseats him the next round. Despite being half the size of Reiner, his experience outstrips the younger man. One solid lance to the chest splinters, making a piece ricochet hard enough into Reiner's helmet to knock him off the horse even as he weathered the initial blow. Your throat squeezes as you hear him hit the ground, but Reiner soon stands, pulling his helmet off and inspecting the dents in irritation. His lip is split and nose bleeding, but escaped any serious harm. You let out a breath you weren't aware you held.

The match resumes, but only briefly -the next tilt, Reiner's knocked off in moments and the joust called in his opponent's favor. Reiner's disappointment isn't something you want to watch as the sudden relief courses throughout your body -instead your attention snaps to Erwin Lannister where he sits and observes the joust under a tented pavilion. You wonder if he had a had in setting up the joust's participants. It wouldn't do to have some backwoods Northerner run off with his niece after all. His reaction doesn't betray any meddling as he smiles and chats with those around him. You make a note to watch out for his champion.

The relief bubbling through you eases your nerves from earlier. Blocking out the crowd and the noise is effortless, mind almost blank from selfish euphoria. Single-minded determination sees you through the rest of the joust, the burst of confidence foreign but welcome.

When you unseat Levi in the final round, it propels you to a further act of stupidity. With the wreath of flowers in your hands, you do not hesitate to lead your horse not to Christa Lannister, but Annie Stark. As you crown her the tournament's Queen of Love and Beauty, she glowers as if it's made of thorns. Her grimace promises punishment but you can't find it in you to care in that moment. Even Reiner smiles and greets you with none of the awkwardness of earlier, half pulling you off your palfrey as he claps you on the back and forces a flagon into your hands in preparation for the rest of the evening.

Annie does not attend the festivities.

–

“Winter is Coming” may be the words of the Starks, but it's summer that takes Lord Stark into the hands of the old gods. He dies unexpectedly and the wolves descend, eager for the new Lady of Winterfell's hand. You are expected to visit and pay your respects but plan to avoid it as long as possible. Reiner is less thrilled about avoiding it, much more shaken by the death of his liege lord.

“We should go see Annie. Offer condolences. She must be taking it hard,” he says for what must be the tenth time.

“No more excuse to stay unmarried at her age,” You say with less empathy.

Reiner gives you a sly look and an elbow to the side, “Oh, has she scorned your advances? I thought it was a sure thing after-”

“ _Reiner._ ”

"I've seen the way you look at her," he continues, nonchalant, "With awe. She deserves that -someone who respects her. Young love is a difficult thing."

“Don't be ridiculous, I'm not in love with Annie Stark.” You snap, red in the face. He thankfully drops it.

Awe, perhaps, but not love. Awe has its roots in fear after all.

Your hesitation is put at an end when you receive word from Winterfell. A raven requesting your presence, along with Reiner's. The trip is short and easy, summer warm and beautiful and plentiful. Winterfell is almost transformed. In the good weather, the town around it is nearly empty, abandoned by the winter residents for the fields they tend during the easier months. In contrast, the keep itself bustles with life and activity.

Eren Yaeger meets you at the gatehouse in light armor. “It's _Ser_ Yaeger now,” he brags as he leads you through the courtyard before adding quickly, “My lord.”

“My father's not the one who died.” You say absently, “I have yet to inherent a lordship.”

Annie gives the two of you audience in her solar, overlooking the busiest area of the castle and part of the godswood.

“Ser Mormont, Ser Bolton. Come to swear fealty to me?” She asks coyly, as if your arrival is unexpected.

Reiner crosses the room and goes onto one knee before her in an instant. Lagging a few steps behind, you follow suit.

“Get off the floor Reiner. It's a formality I have no use for.” It seems half a joke, and he stands uncertainly. She continues with a bite that is almost sarcastic, “You and your family's loyalty is unwavering to the Starks I am sure.”

You start to rise when she cuts in, “A wiser man would stay kneeling.” Reiner looks between the two of you, concern and confusion battling across his expression.

“Repeated refusals of my goodwill haven't fostered much trust with you.”

Avoiding Reiner and Annie's equally daunting gazes, you stare nervously at the interlocking flat grey stones that make up the floor.

“I'm not your enemy, my lady.”

"My father taught me all men are enemies," she says pointedly.

"Mine taught me what to do with them." You respond, cold but careful.

"I'm sure he taught you not to trust a Stark, and yet, here we are. Trusting me over dear Reiner Mormont, your own foster brother." Her lips curl, but you hesitate to call it a smile.

Reiner is less amused, crossing his arms and looking between the two of you when you remain quiet.

"What is she talking about?"

Annie steps in, "He was supposed to teach you a lesson in humility and try to get in Christa Lannister's good graces. The North could use rich and powerful allies with sway in court. Our houses are not known for their friendliness and Erwin Lannister is not a stupid man. He's too ruthless to fear the Boltons' reputation, it would be his perfect foothold in the North and he'd think Bertholdt and I were at odds based on family history. The one time I needed him to be as meek as everyone thinks he is, and he ignored my wishes."

"But he crowned you instead of Christa," Reiner says before turning on you, "So you are in love with her. Why did you lie to me about it?"

Annie's frustrated sigh swings his attention back to her and you shake your head, eyes wide as she goes to speak.

"He is dishonest and a craven, surely this isn't news to you. Seeing how thick you are, it may be. Ask him yourself -outside my solar." She addresses you once more, “You will swear fealty to me, and obey my commands as your liege lord. Even a lord knows when to bend the knee. I've kept your secrets and now you'll earn that safe keeping.”

You repeat every oath she demands and as soon as you are given the chance flee the room before Reiner can apprehend you. It's not long before he catches up, dragging you by the arm into the nearest room for privacy. It is thankfully unoccupied.

“What is going on here?” He asks, exasperated and maybe even nervous.

“Is this about -” he cuts himself off, uncomfortable, and the silence hangs heavy. When you don't fill it he rests a hand on your shoulder gingerly. “In the tent, I didn't _mean_ anything. It's – we're practically brothers. It's normal to be close.”

“Would you act the same with your sisters?” You ask, bitter. He doesn't answer. You go to remove his hand, but the fingers wrap around your own. He hesitates, leans his forehead against yours.

Nervously, he whispers, “This is wrong.”

Reiner is so close you can feel each breath. Simultaneously repulsed and drawn in by his proximity, you are frozen in place until he pulls away and sinks to a knee on the floor, as if in mockery of his earlier stance in Annie's solar.

"Even a lord knows when to bend the knee." His face twists, wry and mocking, in some kind of self depreciation. You welcome it all the same as his hands go to your waist.


End file.
